


Hell and You

by Startabi



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Injury, Choking, Dirty Talk, F/M, Fluff, Light Dom/sub, NSFW, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex, Smut, Spanking, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Wolffe is fuckin TIRED, did I mention this was smut?, god...please forgive me for this FILTH, it's clone loving hours in this house, low key breeding kink, only a bit tho, reader is a little shit not gonna lie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:08:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23263738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Startabi/pseuds/Startabi
Summary: Pure and disgusting smut for the lovely @cybernyaI love her works and so I wanted to give her a little present with lovely Wolffe ;) I have succumbed to the brain rot
Relationships: CC-2224 | Cody/Reader, CC-3636 | Wolffe/Original Character(s), CC-3636 | Wolffe/Reader, Commander Wolffe/reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 273





	Hell and You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cybernya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cybernya/gifts).



> y'all be ready when you read this lmao. also yell at me on Tumblr. www.jangofctts.tumblr.com
> 
> also tracinya'ika means little flame/spark

"Don't stare _too_ hard. Might cause an aneurysm."

It takes every _fiber_ of his being _not_ to slam his head against the mauve colored stone. Why, out of all people in the entirety of the kriffing _galaxy_ did he get stuck with you? _You_. 

Maker, you’re worse than Boost.

You see, he hadn’t thought it’d be an issue—civvies volunteered with the GAR all the time, nothing new, but— _Stars_ , if only he’d known then _maybe_ he could have _lightly_ suggested to General Plo that he did _not_ need a civvie medic parading around. Afterall, only a medic off their rocker would be nicknamed “ _Spits_.” 

Wolffe isn’t sure if you’re aware of the chatter that follows you like the plague—it’s best you don’t know either (you don’t need the confidence boost—he can barely handle you _now_ ). You’re a favorite of the 501st, the 212th too — hell, _anywhere_ you’re a favorite. _Face of an angel_ , Sinker had mentioned once. (He’d _also_ mentioned with a sly grin and raised brow that you’ve got hands of one too— _allegedly)_. 

He gets to the bottom of your nickname one night at the 79’s; the eve before you’re ushered off into his custody. Cody’s there, drunk off his ass and clinging on to an equally inebriated Rex. They wave Wolffe into their little corner booth, swaying like uprooted trees in a windstorm. 

“Y’know,” Cody slurs, pointing his glowing blue drink of _something_ in a knowing manner. “You stole m’favorite...favorite medic. S’not _fair_.”

“D’you w-wanna know why they call her Spits?” Rex grins, lowering his voice like what he’s about to say is top secret information only _he_ has access to. “‘Cause she’ll...she’ll swallow you whole and spit you right out.”

Cody nods, his features suddenly solemn and serious. “An angel...from the spits of hell.”

“Isn’t it _pits of hell?_ Not _spits of hell?”_

Cody waves his brother’s nitpicking aside and takes a swig of his drink. “I think ‘m in love…”

Wolffe rolls his eyes as Rex wheezes and slaps his hand onto the sticky surface of the table, rattling the durasteel tumblers. “ _Vod_ —she’ll bite your head off.”

“Don’ care. Spits can...can—” The commander hiccups, “—do whatever she wants t’me.”

The rest of the night is spent ruminating on Cody’s drunk and enamoured babblings, not meant for sober ears _or_ the light of day. The Marshal Commander would never admit to his words anyhow come morning—it’s for the best Wolffe thinks... 

Wolffe isn’t one to preemptively judge based on the intoxicated opinions of two friends but, he can’t help imagining some baby faced _shiny_ up to her chin in overconfidence and inexperience. Wolffe dreads the idea of leading around a moony-eyed medic by the hand. 

He’s right— _sort of_. 

The first time he lays eyes on you is on Dantooine (he missed his briefing with you due to General Windu’s call for aid), mid-battle as you’re airdropped with members of the 187th and Wolffe’s own men. He only _knows_ it’s you because you’re the prettiest little thing he’s ever had the luck to see. 

You’re gripping the straphandles you can barely reach in the neighboring LAAT/i when your gaze locks onto him. Stray hairs that escape from your swept back braids whip across your face as an easy grin curls over your lips. You touch two fingers to your brow and offer a lazy salute in acknowledgment. 

Cute. 

_Innocent_. 

_Stars_ —he’s never been so wrong in the entirety of his _life._

Forget whatever Sinker, Rex or _Cody_ said—you’re a _menace_ . It should be a crime how soft and sweet you look on the outside; thick lashes, pouty lips and a gentle face all point in that direction—but your temper could rival that of a Zillo beast and your undisputed knack for _talking_ should earn a kriffing medal. 

Wolffe hasn’t known _peace_ or _quiet_ since your arrival. It’s been _weeks_. 

In fact, it’s the _reason_ why you’re both in this particular predicament.

It’s a medical and supply relief mission on Anaxes—a simple job, and _easy_ job. A job that was supposed to run _smoothly_. But things never go as planned when you’re around.

Your head is buried in your datapad as you tap away, checking off supplies and necessities delivered and the ones needed to be dropped off at the rendezvous point. All the while you’re chatting away, your words constant and flowing more so than a flooded river. To this day it _astounds_ Wolffe how well you’re able to multitask like this. Do you even realize you’re talking?

No—the answer is a big heaping pile of _no._

You aren’t aware of the cracked stone, _precariously_ close to a sheer drop off beneath your feet _either_. Another tremor from the unstable planetary core rattles the surface. You look up and glance at the commander as chips of rocks and sediment bounce off the wall below. With a grin you glance down. “Ha...wouldn’t it be be funny if I—” 

With a startled screech the rock splits and crumbles beneath you. 

Wolffe’s heart lurches in horror as he watches you fall—ice cold dread freezing his veins. He doesn’t even _think_ before he lunges for your hand. It’s all for naught. Useless and idiotic looking back on it know. The momentum of your body catapults him off the edge, spitting you both into the steeply sloped cavern. 

It’s a mess of limbs and dirt and _rocks_ —no doubt chipping his armor. His helmet cracks against the dull edge of stone and he vaguely hopes you don’t get injured. _Maker,_ he _prays_ you don’t. 

Wolffe couldn’t tell you which way is up, stuck in and seemingly bottomless pit you threw him into it. He’s close to upchucking his last mealbar when finally— _finally_ , he comes to a jarring stop. His back slams against rock, punching the air straight out of his lungs and rendering the commander stunned. 

He has enough sense to turn his head and look for you in the murky darkness, thankful for the nightvision mods in his helmet. His heart skips at the figure curled to his right, half obscured by a chunk of slate. _Fuck_.

Are you dead? 

Maker, how would he explain this? 

Icy fingers of dread settle in his chest, spurring him into motion despite the fact he’s no doubt broken a rib or _three_ and would rather just _lay_ there and wallow in his stupidity and pain. Wolffe stumbles over, slipping on settling gravel and shale in order to reach you. 

Kneeling by your side he grabs your arm and rolls you onto your back, letting out a sigh of relief when he sees the subtle rise and fall of your chest. There’s a tiny gash across your cheek and a blooming bruise on your temple. There’s no doubt you’ll wake up the next morning _covered_ in dark and mottled splotches, but you’re alive. 

“Spits, wake up,” he orders, shaking your arm. You may be breathing but there’s no telling how hard you hit your head. Even Wolffe, with his little knowledge of all things medical, knows how deadly it can be to lose consciousness, even more a moment. “Get up, kid.” 

Your eyes flutter as you groan. “Wolffe?” 

He shouldn’t like how you say his name like this—tender and quiet. _Injured_. It’s the same tone he imagines well past midnight, as he fists himself to release—you at the smackdab center of all his late night fantasies. Not like he’d ever admit to that. Not in a million years—not even if he were offered five million credits. 

It’s the underlying reason to the surface of his blatant irritation with you. He can’t get you out of his kriffing _head_. It’s unfair. Men fall for you like a lightsaber through flesh and Wolffe is no different. One little grin that fateful day on Dantooine and he was yours. Cut down to his knees and left begging for any scrap of attention you give like a starving stray dog. Any lingering touch or flashy wink rattles his foundation to the core. 

_He hates it._

He _hates_ you’ll never be his. 

So he strangles his adoration to the ground and pushes it to the far recesses of his mind, locking it in a beskar plated chest. He’s more frigid than Hoth when you’re around, hoping you’ll stay _away,_ let him hurt in peace, but you bring torches and you bring kindling, heedless of the snow and ice that wraps tenfold around his heart. There’s a wicked part of him that wishes you’ll get transfered soon so he no longer has to deal with the hollow ache gnawing at his chest. 

Your pained groans as you swim back to the land of the living snaps Wolffe out of his head. 

He shouldn’t be thinking about this—especially now when you’re hurt and concussed. 

“I think I broke my back,” you say, wincing as you shift. “Wait—ah. No. Hold on—just my datapad.”

Your arm folds behind your back as you fish out the datapad stuck beneath you. You wave it around and squint at the shattered monitor, tossing it to the side once you’ve thoroughly decided it’s broken. With another sigh, Wolffe helps you sit up and hands you his extra flashlight. The only light that filters in is from the _very_ far away mouth of the cave. 

_“Commander Wolffe, we saw you and Spits fall. You alive down there, sir?”_

Sinker’s voice crackles through the comlink on Wolffe’s vambrace, loud and jarring against the almost unnatural silence in the cave. 

“We’re alive,” he answers. “Just get us outta here, would you?”

_“Can do, sir.”_

“How long is that gonna be?” You mutter, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“I don’t know, Spits.” 

Turns out, the rescue mission is taking _well_ over three hours. Which is how he ends up, glaring at the mountain of gravel and unclimbable stone.

_“Don’t stare too hard. Might get an aneurism.”_

“Are you sure you’re not the one with an aneurism?” He bites back. He’s too annoyed to say anything other than throw your own words back into your face. 

You huff and roll your eyes. “No need to be _grouchy_.” 

“We’re stuck in a pit.” 

“Fair.” 

Wolffe breathes out a heavy sigh and stomps over to the wall you're leaning against, making sure to put at _least_ seven feet between you. He winces as he sits, his ribs still tender from the fall but you don’t have enough sympathy to let it go unnoticed. Pulling off his helmet he sucks in a careful breath of stale, earthy air. 

You sit up and scooch closer, closing the distance he tried so hard to _keep._ “Are you hurt?”

“No,” he barks, “just a couple bruises.”

“Ahuh.” You’re near enough now to touch him if you wanted. “You have to tell me, y’know. I _do_ technically outrank you.” 

_The nerve_. The fucking _audacity_ —

“That’s only if I’m _injured_ ,” he retorts with a sharp glare. “Keep your hands to yourself, thank you.” 

You place yourself right up to his side with a vulpine grin. “Don’t be like that Commander. The least you could do is say _thank you_ for my offer to _help_. ‘Cause, that _is_ my job.” 

He purses his lips and tears his eyes away, refusing to give you the satisfaction. 

You poke his cheek. “Aw, c’mon.” 

He stares dead ahead, eyes locked onto the absolutely _fascinating_ stone. He can’t look at you. He knows—just one tiny glance and all those walls he’s built, created to keep you _out,_ will come crumbling down with a mere bat of your lashes. 

You scoot closer. Wolffe clenches his jaw—your hair, despite trudging through mud and muggy humidity for _hours_ , still smells sweet and pleasant. You’re close enough to the point that if he turns his head his nose will be pressed into the silky strands he dreams of running his finger through. _Maker_ — you can’t—he _can’t_ …

“ _Ohhh_ , it’s not that hard,” you laugh, reaching up to cradle his cheeks between your two fingers. You lower your voice, tone going all huffy and gravely in a poor attempt to mimic his own vocals as you squish his lips open and closed. “Say, _thank you my brave, wonderful, lovely medic, what would I do without you if you hadn’t saved my life countless times?”_

Wolffe slaps your hand away and scowls. “Stop that.” 

“Not feelin’ the love tonight, Commander?” 

“ _No_ ,” he hisses. “So, shut up an’ sit _down_.”

There’s a fraction of a second—so brief and fleeting in which you consider his request—he sees it flicker across your face, and he hopes— _Maker’s Breath_ he hopes you’ll listen...but of course...there’s a _reason_ you’re called _Spits_. 

A smile, better suited on a Fyrnock curls on your mouth as dread, colder than _Hoth_ settles into his chest. Your lips purse—

“What’re you gonna do if I don’t? _Spank me?”_

 _Fuck_. 

He tries to stop it—perhaps not as hard as one should when presented with an idea such as yours about one’s subordinate—but the image of you bent over his knees, _naked_ , sparks something to life in his belly. 

His mouth feels like sandpaper when he swallows. You’re still looking at him with that wicked grin, knowing full well you’ve caught him in your finely crafted web. Maybe, if he were a lesser man he’d jump at the opportunity, but with a sigh and shake of his head, he looks away. 

You however, _cannot_ take a hint. 

Poking at his buttons is an understatement. What you do is find a steel poker and whack it against every _single_ lever, button, and toggle you can find until he’s a puddle of exasperated goo, all but bursting out of the seams of his being. 

You hand shoots up to tweak his nose but he’s faster. 

He catches your wrist midair, the grip firm enough to hold you in place but never enough to harm. 

Your lips part in soft surprise. “Com—”

“Don’t,” he snarls. “For _fuck’s sake_. Don’t.”

“What?” You laugh. “I was just gonna—”

He doesn’t see your other hand fly up as your fingers find it’s mark and gives his nose a squeeze. “Boop.”

Wolffe shouts your name, curses it, and before either of you can fully process, the commander sweeps your wrist down and to the side, using your weight to catapult you into the dirt. Like this, he has both your wrists ensnared in one hand, the other one pressing on your sternum with enough pressure to keep you pinned as one muscled thigh wedges itself between your legs. 

It’s bordering _comical_ how high your brows arch and how your face twists in downright disbelief. 

And then everything—your behavior, the wry smiles, the jabs at anyone willing to play into your hands—it all shifts into place like a missing puzzle piece. 

You’re _bored_. 

Trying to keep up with you is like trying to staple smoke to a wall—nigh impossible, and Wolffe admits even _he_ has trouble keeping in step with your dance. You spin eloquent stories and tales like spider silk in a weaver’s hands—flowing in verse around people until they decide it’s better off studying the vastness of space and its mysteries than compete with you. 

It’s not your fault—your quick mouth and speedy fingers are what allows you to tip the scales between life and death on the battlefield—but that same deadly speed is the same pace at which you dig your grave for misinterpreted sentences and paperthin friendships. An anchor is what you need. Someone to keep your head from spinning out of orbit.

You blink up at him, eyes wide as your tongue passes over your bottom lip. You recover quickly. “Wolffe…” 

“Is this what you want?” Wolffe huffs, sweeping his free hand up to curl around the delicate column of your throat. His gloved thumb draws circles over the small indentation above your collarbone, not pushing down, just a subtle reminder to keep you from squirming. “Someone to fight back? Don’t worry, tracinya’ika—I’ll give you what you _need_.” 

Your breath hitches, but that dark undercurrent, greedy and wild, tells you to push _harder_ at his patience. Commander Wolffe has you trapped—completely wrapped around his fingers as you rapidly spiral into that point of no return. “You—you sure you can h-handle me?” 

“No,” he smirks, pressing his thumb down a fraction of an inch just to hear you gasp. “You’re untameable—but I’ll have fun trying.”

 _Oh_ , you think, _he will_.

Wolffe tips forward, seizing your lips in a rough kiss. Prickly stubble tickles over your lip, contrasting against the softness of his mouth. You tilt your head, deepening the kiss, his tongue sliding across your bottom lip in a curious swipe. With a soft moan you part your mouth and slide the slick muscle across his in a fleeting touch. It’s perfect— _he’s_ perfect. 

Yet once again, your rebellious nature rears its ugly head. He has to _earn_ the privilege to have you like this. 

You part and with a feral grin, your foot jerks up, hooking into the side of his hip, and you _shove_. With a huff he topples backwards, releasing all holds on your limbs to catch himself from face-planting into the dirt. You laugh, roll onto your front and wiggle away. You’re barely to your knees when Wolffe throws his heavily muscled frame over you. He grunts as your elbow stabs into the plastoid chestplate, managing to get a grip on your flailing arm. 

“Where d’you think you’re going?” He hums, warm breath fanning over the shell of your ear. Wolffe lightly twists your arm up your back as his teeth nip at your earlobe. 

Your breathless giggle fades into a sharp intake of air as he licks a stripe from the base of your throat to your jaw. “I-I—wasn’t— _fuck_.”

A dry chuckle rumbles through his chest, his belt and plastoid armor digging into your ass and lower back as he presses himself closer. “No words?” 

“Piss off,” you spit half heartedly, bucking your hips in an attempt to shake him off. The commander doesn’t budge. Not even an _inch_.

His free hand slips into your hair, fingers curling at the base of your skull and gives the strands a playful tug. “Do you want this? Tell me, tracinya’ika…”

You whimper and shake your head as much as you can in his careful hold. “K-keep going.”

Wolffe sucks in a breath. “I won’t be gentle.” 

“I’m not made of glass,” you snort. “I want you to fucking—”

A sharper tug on your hair cuts you off. “Be quiet.” 

“You love it,” you tease, “don’t think I—”

You jolt as a firm slap lands over your backside. Most of the sting is absorbed by the fabric of your pants, but it leaves the skin tender and hot. “I said _quiet_.” 

You’re momentarily stunned. The commander squeezes the globe of your ass and slots his hips against yours, grinding the unforgiving plastoid of his codpiece over your clothed cunt. _Fuck_ —all the moody looks, the gruff words and tough love had you craving Wolffe beforehand, but now this is downright _heaven_ . You’re not _used_ to someone pushing back. The thought of it leaves your head in a mess of hazy pleasure and _need_. 

Wolffe pulls the collar of your shirt down just enough to suck a bruise into the delicate skin. You whine as he nibbles a trail up to your ear and laves his tongue over the small divot behind your earlobe. You shudder, becoming putty in his hands much faster than you would ever care to admit to. 

“Let go for me, tracinya’ika,” he purrs, letting his other hand tickle over your hips and thumb at the metal belt buckle. His fingers wiggle the leather out from one loop. “Yield to me an’ I’ll give you what you need.” 

That ever burning flame that pushes you into fighting—tooth and nail, any hold you can get and sink your teeth into—sputters out like a shot hyperdrive. That deep ache of arousal curls low in your belly, hungry, gnawing, and _desperate_. 

_“I yield_ ,” you say, breathless and airy. You don’t _care_ how whiney you sound. “ _Stars_ —I’m all yours, Wolffe.” 

Either your submission or the sound of his name curling on your tongue draws out a curse from the man. He sits up, all that heavy weight lifting off your frame so he can wrestle your belt off, untuck your shirt and push it up to your armpits. There’s a shuffle of fabric and armor clinking together and you don’t have time to think as to _what_ he’s taking off when hands—calloused and warm land over your ribcage. 

Your inhale is stuttered as shivers race down your spine, goosebumps erupting beneath his fingertips with each covetous touch. They whisper down the soft planes of skin, thumbs pausing to trace over the two dimples on your lower spine. His fingers savor your body, committing every dip and curve he can to memory, unknowing stoking the growing inferno blazing within you. 

He leans down and mouths a kiss over the indented flesh. “Kriffing _gorgeous_.”

You barely hear him over the roar of your blood pulsing in your ears. He hooks his fingers into your belt loops and tugs your pants _and_ panties down in one fell swoop. The cool air of the cave is a stark contrast to the wetness that pools over your cunt, causing a new wave of goosebumps to erupt over your body. Wolffe’s palm curves over the flesh of your ass, carving a burning path down to your aching center. 

His thumb slides between your lips, parting the moistened folds and shallowly dipping into your entrance. You clench around the tip of his thumb, hips canting backwards for more—anything you could get to appease your empty cunt. Wolffe pulls his thumb away and you whine in frustration—that _bastard_. 

“Is there something you want, tracinya’ika?” Wolffe teases, index finger running a light, tedious line over your lips. “Tell me.”

You _want_ to tell him to go to hell, shove it where the sun don’t shine but your own tongue betrays you. “Touch me. _Please_ , Wolffe.”

“I _am_ touching you,” he says. “Try again.” 

You groan and drop your head, a blush rushing up to heat your cheeks. “Wolffe.”

His fingertip traces an arcing circle around your swollen clit, only meant to tease. “Yes?”

You swallow that last bit of pride. “You’re fi-fingers. Please, put—put your fingers in me, Commander.”

Wolffe is still circling your clit as he considers, watching the way you tremor and pant for him. His finger decidedly swipes over the throbbing bundle of nerves, wrenching out a loud gasp as your arms nearly collapse at the sudden white-hot pleasure that tears through your being. You can _feel_ the wetness drip over his hand, coating your thighs in a sticky display of unending arousal. Fuck— _fuck_ can’t he just...just fuck you already?

One hand—almost large enough to reach all the way across—pushes at the center of your back. You obey, folding yourself in half until your front brushes against stone, ass sticking up in the air. You don’t complain about the position—Maker, you’d do somersaults if he asked—all in search for that sweet, toe-curling release. 

Two fingers push only a centimeter or so into your hole and the simple touch has your nails scrabbling against the rocky ground. “You want me here?” 

You nod and buck your hips into his hand. “ _Wolffe—_ ”

Without warning he sheathes the two digits into your cunt, instantly rewarded with a sharp cry. You arch as your soft walls clench like a vice around him, sucking him in deeper up to his last knuckles. Wolffe curls his fingers down and draws them out of your center against your cries, leaving you empty once more. You turn your head to the side, catching him put his slickened fingers into his mouth, tasting you. 

He groans, mutters something under his breath and thrusts his fingers back into your cunt. You don’t realize how close you are to the edge, there’s no fucking _warning_ —your body is a tightly keyed wire and it all but snaps as a hand buries itself in your hair and _pulls_. That and his fingers, merciless and rigid thrusting into your soaking pussy sends you flying. When his thumb passes over the little bundle of nerves, everything tightens up harder than durasteel and your shoved off the precipice. Your fingers dig into the ground as you jolt and squirm, electric heat curling from your fluttering cunt all the way down your toes. 

Your eyes are shut tight as the waves of ecstasy slowly dim to tiny aftershocks of pleasant satisfaction. You huff as Wolffe’s fingers slowly slip out, sliding them through the velvety folds, much slicker from your orgasm. 

You’re pliant and sagging forward, limbs feeling like a pile of goo as his hands hook around your waist and tug you closer. The tip of his cock, searing hot and pulsing, grazes along the inside of your thigh, leaving a dribble of sticky wetness there. 

“You’re quiet, Spits,” Wolffe hums, grabbing a hold of his cock to grind it against your cunt. Your breath hitches. 

“Can’t fucking...fucking _think_ right now.”

He leans over you, nibbling and sucking a mark just below the collar of your shirt. “That’s a first.” 

“Sh-shut up n’ just fuck me, Wolffe,” you whimper, twitching as the tip of him skims over your entrance.

The Commander mutters something under his breath, something about being _needy_ when he starts to guide the fat head of his cock into the velvety softness between your thighs. You clench and arch your spine as your cunt flutters and spasms around his firm length, his hips carefully rocking to allow you to adjust and take him deeper. Tingles race from the base of your skull all the way down your back as Wolffe swears and mutters your name above your ear as he bottoms out, his hips slotting perfectly against your ass. 

“ _Shit_ . Shit—you’re tight,” he growls, hot breath fanning over your skin. He pulls out halfway and thrusts back in, groaning as you clench around his cock. “Fuck. Should’a done this—this _sooner_.” 

You yelp as he sets an unforgiving pace, the sound of your wetness echoing through the cave as he fucks into you. _Maker_ , how fucking pent up is he? You don’t want to ask—you _can’t_ fucking ask, but you have a sneaking suspicion it’s _you_ who’s got him so wound up. It’s always _you_ with him. 

Those smoldering looks when he thinks you’re not looking during those long drawn out nights curled around campfires. Or the downright lethal glares he shoots at Sinker when his touches linger just a fraction too long to be considered _friendly_. It doesn’t matter now. 

It doesn’t fucking _matter._ You’re Wolffe’s. You’re _his_ and you can damn all the rest to hell. You bite the fabric covering your arm and squeeze your eyes shut as the Commander hits something glorious and breathtaking inside of you. Whimpering, you push your hips back harder, meeting every rough thrust until you’re skirting the edges of release again. 

“Are you gonna cum again, tracinya’ika?” Wolffe rasps, wrapping a thick arm around your middle. “I can feel you squeezin’ me.” 

Before you manage to voice your jumbled affirmation, the arm he has around your waist jerks up and you’re left with no other option to follow. You’re all but draped over him as he sits back on his heels, snaking a hand around your bared throat that rests over his pauldron while the other one palms your breast through your shirt. 

The sharp change of positions and his hand that lightly clamps down around such a vulnerable part of you—fuck—you don’t have _chance_ . Your hand shoots up, digging your fingers into his hair—you only tether to reality—and it’s not _enough_ . You’re arching off his chest, sobbing and pleading for that peak of euphoric bliss. Whether or not your incoherent babblings made sense or Wolffe just _knows_ , his fingers slip between your legs and find your pulsing clit, rubbing his fingers in tight little circles until you’re sure your noises will echo to the surface. 

“There you go. _Fuck_ —just like that,” Wolffe pants, holding you tight as you begin shuddering in his arms. “G-good girl. Cum for me, let go.” 

Everything snaps and your vision blanches, morphing into a grand crescendo that you know will have you begging for more. Your pussy grips him hard, enough to limit his pounding to short thrusts as you reach your end. It’s almost too much as you shake and cry, considering to ask him to stop as he fucks you through it. 

With a snarl he shoves you back on all fours again and hammers into you, using your fucked out body to reach his own peak. He’s close, the wheezy breathing that fans over your ear spurs you into talking—just enough to encourage. 

“Cum in me, Wolffe,” you gasp. “Fill me—make me _yours_.” 

It does the trick. 

His pace becomes jerky and stuttered, then stops altogether as he buries himself as far into you as he can. With a long drawn out moan of your name, he bites your shoulder and cums. You feel his cock twitch as he pumps you full of his seed in thick spurts. “ _Fuck.”_

You both stay like this, your arms close to giving out as you catch your breath. His stubble tickles your skin through your shirt as he rubs his cheek over your shoulder blade, fingers tracing light patterns onto your hips where you know there’ll be bruises in the shape of his hands in the morning. Unfortunately, despite wanting to stay wrapped in his arms forever, stuffed full with his cock, he’s _heavy_ and the plastoid armour bites into your skin that’s still signed with pleasure. 

As you shift under him, the Commander gets the hint and sits up. You both groan as he pulls out, blushing at the gush of wetness that follows and drips down the line of your cunt. “I made a mess of you, Spits.” 

Your thoughts are still swirling in your head like a shaken up snowglobe, difficult to pin down words and get your tongue to work. You settle with a tired nod, too shaky to even pull your pants up. “Y-yeah.” 

Your loss for words earns a chuckle from the Commander as he tugs your pants up _for_ you and maneuvers you onto your back. His hand brushes a hair from your forehead and sweeps off a patch of dirt itself at home over your cheek. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip as he smirks. 

“What?”

“I was just thinking that maybe I should fuck you _all_ the time. Tire you out. Finally get some peace and quiet.” 

“Maybe you— _mphf_ ,” any retort you had half formulated disintegrates as Wolffe’s curls his fingers over your jaw and drags you into a breathtaking kiss—all tongue and breathy groans, enough to stoke the fading embers to life. 

Wolffe breaks the kiss as your palm crawls over the right side of his face. Your thumb barely skims the end of his scar when he catches your hand in a light hold. It’s not a firm grip but the way his lips pinch and his eyes flash with uncertainty, you know you’re wandering into uncharted territory. Without breaking your gaze from his, you press forward, silently thanking the Maker that he drops his hand. 

Wolffe’s eyes flutter shut as the warmth of your palm cradles his jaw, lightly tracing over the scarred flesh. Whatever or _whoever_ did this to him makes your chest twist in anger. It’s not the scar or the cybernetic eye that bothers you— _far_ from it really—it’s the thought that someone _hurt_ him. You don’t like the idea of it. Not one fucking bit.

With a gentle whisper of his name you lean forward and press a kiss to his brow over the other half of his scar. He shivers and clutches you to his chest. 

“I’m yours, Wolffe,” you whisper. 

He swallows. “Tell me again.”

“I’m _yours_ . Only yours— _always_.” 

**Author's Note:**

> www.jangofctts.tumblr.com


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